


Into the Fire

by Love_Letter



Category: Glee, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, French Revolution, M/M, Possibly Slow Burn?, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 16:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_Letter/pseuds/Love_Letter
Summary: 1792. England. Lord Kurt Hummel is a benefactor of the arts, and doesn't care for much else in life; at least, not until he meets Sir Blaine Anderson. The problem? Blaine has a secret, one that, if found out, will cut their budding romance short with the blade of Madame Guillotine.(This story is based in the universe of Baroness Orczy's The Scarlet Pimpernel, but no prior knowledge of the series is needed.)





	1. The Benefactor

Marguerite St. Just— now Lady Blakeney, he reminded himself silently— was, among other things, the cleverest woman in Europe.

 

It was rather strange, then, that she’d married a fool.

 

Kurt Hummel, English lord and benefactor of the arts, had been a patron of hers for several years. As a wealthy gentleman, he’d spent a great deal of his youth traveling (not to say his youth was gone, nearing only four-and-twenty). He’d met tens-of-hundreds of people: painters, writers, singers, and the like, but none had ever seared such a first impression in him like Marguerite.

 

It was back before the bloody and nonsensical riots broke out, when people could still move freely to-and-from France without fear of Madame Guillotine. He had been bored, alone, and wandering through Parisian streets. A charming poster had lured him in, and the woman on stage demanded he stay; startlingly beautiful, clearly strong-willed, and deceivingly delicate in nature. Her voice had cut through him with its passion, lines so convincing him of her fictitious sorrow that he forgot he was seated in the theater. She'd perfected the art of acting, and before the night was over, he had introduced himself and promised his loyalty to her future in performing.

 

It was a shame, really, that she would not be performing anymore. The young woman had retired upon marriage, but they’d remained in contact. Sparse letters, and now, an invitation to a water-party, once cancelled, postponed, and finally, in motion, a ball. Kurt might have known Marguerite as an actress, but her reputation in England fell upon fashion, intellect, and her husband, Sir Percy Blakeney, who was a close friend of his Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.

 

It had been a year since the marriage, and this was the first time Kurt was visiting their river-front estate in Richmond. It was a rather stunning property, with rolling green lawns and expansive gardens. The Tudor era, red-brick mansion sat facing the water, with a lovely marble stairway center, welcoming guests onto a well-lit, well-kept terrace. He had given his coach and four bays to the waiting servants, having traveled independently from four hours inland, and was now standing in one of the swooping archways of the home’s grand entrance.

 

He’d taken in the estate’s appeal before coming to stand there, and now that he’d satisfied his curiosity, he joined the receiving line for guests. As he waited, watching, Kurt found himself smiling as he saw, maybe, Marguerite hadn’t given acting up so completely. He could tell her real smile from the fake one, but the difference was unquestionably subtle, and he doubted any couple in the room knew they were being pandered to. It was no wonder she’d charmed herself right into the high life of English society.

 

Brilliant, beautiful Marguerite. He allowed himself to mourn the loss of an artist with so much potential for just a moment, and then sighed, putting away the thought. Because really, it was only the theater that had lost her. Kurt, not being physically attracted to women, had not grieved for the fact her beauty was now taken. That was perfectly fine, if not expected, and perhaps this was better for her. Safer for her. God only knew the hell her mother France had descended into.

 

The line thinned in front of him, and after a few more guests parted, he was standing before the former protégé. “Madame,” he greeted, taking her hand into his to kiss.

 

The polite smile on her face gave way to one of dazzling, true happiness, “Lord Hummel!”

 

“A pleasure to see you after so long,” he said, meaning it.

 

“Oh, the pleasure is mine.” She replied in her sing-song voice, accent ever endearing. “It’s been too long.” She lifted her hand when he released it to gesture to the tall man beside her, “My husband, Sir Percy Blakeney. Percy, Lord Kurt Hummel, an old benefactor.”

 

The tall man reached out, his hand clasping Kurt’s firmly, warmly. Dull blue eyes, and sandy hair, handsome by anyone’s standards, and dressed in the finest fashion— he was exactly as rumors and Marguerite had described.

 

Kurt maintained his smile, “I do hope you’re taking care of my star, Sir Blakeney.”

 

“The very best care, I assure you,” He glanced to her, those eyes alight with undeniable adoration, “and she’s taken great care of me.”

 

A delighted blush on Marguerite’s cheeks set Kurt at ease. She had found someone who appreciated her, and he sincerely hoped it was not just her face or her talent, but her being as a whole. It was all Kurt could’ve wanted for any friend, much less the strikingly magnificent woman that was Marguerite (his patron hopes be damned).

 

“I really am so glad you came tonight, Lord Hummel,” she peeked past him at the ever lengthening line, “I would speak to you all night if you’d give me the opportunity. There’s so much I wish to discuss with you,” her eyes flickered back to his, “in particular, another guest.”

 

He raised a thinly groomed eyebrow, “Oh?”

 

“Yes, let me sort through everyone here, and whence I have his hand in mine, I will drag him right to you.”

 

Sir Blakeney laughed, “You will let me greet him too, won’t you?”

 

“You see him often enough, Percy.”

 

The teasing banter continued a few more exchanges before Kurt interjected, “Is it someone I know?”

 

“No,” Marguerite answered, lips pursed to hide the tugging smile, “but certainly someone you should know.”

 

“Then I await the introduction,” he gave her dainty hand a parting kiss, nodded to her husband, and let them continue on with the line of arriving guests.

 

Kurt left the warm foyer, high boots taking him out onto the terrace where he made idle chatter and listened to the strings of the minuet. It was a pleasant party, people dancing and laughing. There were few deep conversations overheard, but when he did hear them, they all focused on one thing: France.

 

Robespierre, treason, massacres, and, of course, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

 

Kurt had spent most of the last year in Italy, but no sooner had he returned to England did he hear the stories. There was an Englishman, a master of disguise, who had been slipping across the channel and snatching condemned aristocrats out from under the falling blade of the Guillotine. Each time he took them, in their place he left a note, the parchment embellished with his seal— a red flower, the scarlet pimpernel.

 

The man, it was said, commanded a band of people just like him. There were at least two dozen young men at his disposal, all loyal, all brave, and all willing to risk their literal necks for his cause.

 

It was very noble, this rescuing of the innocent, and the unknown identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel only added to his intrigue. Hundreds owed him their lives, and in return, he sought nothing. Kurt listened to the stories, the theories. What man would organize such an endeavor? Why would an Englishman meddle in these treacherous foreign affairs? He’d greatly upset the government of the French revolution, and the reward for his head was almost as great as the country’s crippled treasury. Still, he continued his work. Men, women, and children were ushered across the water, safe once on English soil.

 

“It’s grandly romantic, isn’t it?” One woman whispered to him from behind her fan.

 

He hummed his agreement. In his head, he mused the identity of the man. He would have to be rich, surely, not only to travel so often, but to afford the various disguises, and no doubt to buy silence from French citizens. Perhaps a nobleman. Young. He had to be. Clever. There was no doubt. Really, he was a man who would fit perfectly into a party just like this one— Kurt looked around, wondering suddenly if he  _ was _ there, listening amusedly to everyone’s thoughts on his heroic quests.

 

He slipped away from the circle of theorists, entertaining himself with the possibilities, silently deciding, “No, it can’t be you,” as he brushed shoulders with men in the hall. The receiving line had diminished, Marguerite gone among the other guests. What did the cleverest woman in all of Europe have to say about the Scarlet Pimpernel? He was tremendously curious, more than he’d ever admit out loud. Who could the man be?

 

His eyes flickered across the hall, one particularly large and loud gathering grabbing his attention. The host must be at its center. He was right, in half. Politely moving towards the inner circle, he found Sir Percy entertaining his guests with the promise of a poem. “I wrote it myself, you know, would you like to hear it?” Yes, of course, the guests urged. Sir Percy drew himself to his full height, cleared his throat, and began,

 

“We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?

That demmed, elusive Pimpernel!”

 

It earned quite the approval from his admirers. Encouraged, he repeated the verse in song, with questions posed to individual guests, his acting leaving much to be desired. He was just too relaxed, Kurt decided, that he could not buy into the suspense Sir Percy was trying to create. His handsome face held a drawl expression, his tall and lanky body failing in graceful motion. Kurt was being harsh in his internal judgment, he knew, but he  _ was _ a critic of performance.

 

Sir Percy moved from his center position, and when he did, Kurt’s eyes caught those of the man standing directly opposite him. His astonished gasp was lost in the crowd’s laughter, Sir Percy bumbling around as he imitated French spies.

 

“Now you,” he thought to himself, “would be perfect to play the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

 

He was an attractive young man, average height, with light brown eyes framed by long dark lashes. His hair was thick, curled, and pulled back. A few ringlets had sprung loose, ticking around his ears and his clean shaven face. His complexion was tanned, lovely in compliment to his deep red jacket. Kurt admired the fashion, the threaded gold cuffs, the white lace of his ruffled blouse sleeves, and the fine leather of his coal boots. He was handsome, in a very different manner than Sir Percy, but Kurt found his look preferable, maybe because he looked… well,  _ exotic _ was probably the word, but saying that hardly seem a compliment.

 

In the time he’d taken to muse over the proper adjectives, the man had moved, and Kurt was disappointed. He’d barely begun to pine over the impossible young man, his forming fantasies dashed at birth. Or so he’d thought. Sir Percy was imitating some sort of bird now, and a sudden voice in his ear made him turn, “Rather foolish, don’t you think?”

 

Wide blue eyes met those of honey. He was, somehow, even more charming a breath away than two yards across the hall. “What foolish?” That he’d been staring? He was mortified to be caught.

 

“Sir Percy,” he answered with a warm laugh, “His impersonations are quite ridiculous. Except the one of Chauvelin. That one is dreadfully spot on.”

 

“Chauvelin?”

 

“That supposed ambassador from the French Republic. Rather deplorable fellow. Be glad you don’t know him,” even the insults came out light-hearted.

 

“Oh,” they both looked back to Percy. “Does he do this often?”

 

“No, he’s in rare form tonight. The poems and singing, yes, but the acting he leaves to others, generally.”

 

The next question seemed natural, “Are you one of ‘the others’ who acts?”

 

“Aren’t we all?”

 

He met the wit with an appreciative grin. Laughter from the crowd filled his ears, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from the stranger’s to see what Percy had done. Warm fingers slid around his cool ones, and without permission, not that he would have protested, he was pulled gently from the crowd by the crimson jacketed man. Out onto the terrace, down the stairs, and then he asked Kurt, almost as an afterthought, “Would you like to walk along the water with me? We could have a decent conversation without all the noise.”

 

“Do I have a choice?”

 

A bright and hopeful smile said, “No.”

 

So, while their hands dropped, and Kurt silently mourned the loss, they continued the pleasant path toward the shore. There were small groups scattered along the lawn, but everything was much quieter than in the mansion. They struck up casual chatter in the warm evening air.

 

“Beautiful estate, isn’t it?” Kurt asked.

 

“Stunning. Is this your first time here?” He answered his own question, “It must be, at least your first party. I would’ve seen you, otherwise.”

 

“Are you so sure?”

 

“Entirely.”

 

He bit back a, “Why?” and instead told him, “You’re correct. This is my first time here. I’ve been out of the country since the wedding, and only now could I accept Marguerite’s invitation.”

 

“Ah, then you’re a friend of Lady Blakeney. I should have known. Surrounds herself with only the finest.”

 

He deflected the compliment, “And the foolish.”

 

“The most foolish,” he agreed, smile tugging at his lips.

 

Kurt could grow to like that smile. “I take it you’re a friend of Sir Percy?”

 

“Yes, let’s say ‘friends.’”

 

“Then tell me his redeeming qualities so I do not walk away from the evening wondering what she sees in him. Give me something more than wealth, or fashion, or—”

 

“Love.”

 

Kurt’s boot scuffed against a small pebble on the path, rattling it along ahead of them. It rolled in the moonlight, across bleached stones, and into a clump of grass. He lifted his eyes from its resting spot, and once more found the stranger’s face awaiting his, “Does he love her?”

 

“Worships her like a goddess. It’s almost worrisome. I feel if they ever argued and she told him to drown himself in the lake, he’d do it.” As if to emphasis the point, he strayed off the path to the edge of the water. He picked up a flat stone to skip across its surface, and when its sixth skip plunked it into the deep, Kurt sighed.

 

“Foolish,” he bent gracefully to find his own pebble, “but I suppose I can admire that dedication.” He flicked his wrist, expecting his stone to skip too, but it simply vanished with a wet splash. The young man at his side brought a hand to his lips, hiding the smile his laughing shoulders betrayed. Kurt huffed. “Not as easy as it looks.”

 

“Nothing is.” He picked up a new stone and passed it to Kurt with instruction.

 

Again, it sank without dancing, and when the laughter finally escaped Sir Percy’s friend, Kurt was much too embarrassed to continue the walk. He hoped the flush of his face was concealed by the clouding moonlight, and turned back to the pathway.

 

“Where are you going?” The carefree voice inquired behind him.

 

“A drink,” he replied without looking back, not daring to catch those dark and beautiful eyes, “Inside.”

 

“I can get you a drink.”

 

“And the company of Marguerite?”

 

“Is my company not enough?” He fell in step beside him, teasing.

 

More than enough, overwhelmingly enough, Kurt thought. It was why he needed Marguerite. He needed her wit and her distraction. Why he held the attention of this handsome young man was a mystery, and it was better to let go now than to get caught up in disillusions and further make a fool of himself. Yes, it was fine to make mistakes in skipping stones, but his pride, his reputation, (and his heart) were not things he could risk tossing into the tide. “I’m not dismissing you.” He said, hoping to avoid potential insult despite wishing distance, “It’s only that she had something she wished to discuss with me.”

 

“A topic I can weigh in on?”

 

“Perhaps,” Kurt mused, “You might know him. There’s a guest I’m to meet.”

 

“Who?”

 

“I haven’t any idea.”

 

“Then I can’t tell you if I know him.”

 

The badinage was ridiculous, but he was enjoying it, however unwise, and maybe he didn’t have to escape the sight of the crimson jacket so much as he needed to share its wearer with others. They moved up the ornate stairs, back into the musical notes of the minuet and the hum of voices.

 

“Would you like wine? I was serious when I said I would fetch you a drink.”

 

It was silly he should wander off to find a server when one would inevitably find them, but the man looked earnest, and Kurt couldn’t decline him. “If you would, please.”

 

“I will,” The charming smile assured him, “and I will find you shortly.”

 

He turned into the crowd. Kurt had a fleeting thought of running then, of taking the last hour and committing it to memory and fantasy, and never allowing himself the chance to see where it would lead to in reality, because surely it would never be as grand as his heart dared to vainly dream. He did not run. He did, however, move from the spot, and situate himself inside the vast foyer, against a far wall, in a momentary place of observance.

 

He had hardly begun searching for her familiar face when Marguerite’s dainty hand fell gently upon his arm, “Lord Hummel.” She had spied him first.

 

“Mademoiselle,” he laid his hand over hers, “I did not mention it before, but your gown is stunning and most befitting.”

 

“It was a wedding gift from a friend.” She told him, “I believe he said something about me, now being a mature woman, wearing more dark colors. That deep reds and blues would find me prettier than pastels. I think I might agree.” Her bright eyes met his in the dim light, “Is it Italian?”

 

“Austrian,” He informed her while fixing a ringlet of her hair, “But I did find something for you in Italy, too. It’s in the coach.” Kurt took quiet pride in having an eye for gifts that flattered her figure and her fashion.

 

“You are much too kind.”

 

“Not at all.”

 

A third figure interrupted their tête-à-tête. “Your drink.” The charismatic man had returned, finding Kurt as promised, and was now handing over a glass of burgundy wine.

 

“Thank you.” He accepted, gingerly taking the stem from warm fingers.

 

“My pleasure,” He fixed his gaze on Marguerite, “Lady Blakeley, had I known you would be here, I would have found you a drink as well. I would offer you mine, but I’m afraid I drank half it on my over. Would you like anything?”

 

She laughed. “No, stay.” She reached out, hand on his scarlet clad forearm, so that she was touching both of them. “I am much more interested in your fetching for Lord Hummel. I did not realize you two were acquainted.”

 

“We are not,” the man supplied innocently, “at least, not formally. I sought conversation before I asked his name. I should have known who he was, though, with just one look.” At Kurt’s raised eyebrows he elaborated. “Lady Blakeney said she had invited the most beautiful man in Europe to tonight’s gathering.”

 

Marguerite seemed delighted he’d remembered. Kurt felt heat creeping up the collar of his jacket. Had she really described him that way? He hesitated to be flattered by the compliment, though Marguerite was certainly painting him positively.

 

“The salons you must host!” He had gone on, “Do you gather the best of the best? The cleverest, the most beautiful, and—?”

 

There was a shriek of laughter somewhere in the hall, and Kurt, recognizing it, said in good humor, “The loudest; Lady Rachel Berry, to name one of many bests.”

 

They shared a laugh themselves, and the next time their eyes met, the young man cleared his throat, “Forgive me.” He bowed politely, posture perfect. “Blaine Anderson, and it is my absolute pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance, Lord Hummel.”

 

Kurt acknowledged the introduction with a nod, “Finally?”

 

“Lady Blakeney has told me much about you.”

 

He wondered what stories she’d shared, and regretted he could not return the sentiment, because as it stood, he knew nothing about this man other than his name and that he was a friend of Sir Percy.

 

Marguerite read his silence. “Lord Hummel has been away, Sir Anderson, and so I have yet to tell him much about you.” She fingered the jewels strung about her delicate neck. “If you stay in each other’s company though, I am sure you will understand the… _ interests _ you have in common, that I felt so necessary to introduce you.” Kurt took her brief pause to be the language barrier, a moment to transform her thoughtful French into elegant English.

 

“I trust your judgment.” It was now an impossibility to leave the handsome stranger, “And so, it is my pleasure to meet you, too.”

 

Sir Anderson had regained his wide and genuine grin.

 

Kurt mirrored him, ready to seek out the interests Marguerite felt them bound by. “I don’t suppose you are a benefactor of the arts?”

 

“There are few things I enjoy more than theater.”

 

It was the start of a lengthy conversation, not without debates, but certainly satisfying. Marguerite contributed her performing perspective when needed, but flittered from their words to those of her other guests, no doubt feeling her arrangement successful. Sir Anderson was an animated fellow, his naturally light demeanor brightening with the passion he held for the theater: the costumes, the stories, the staging, the actors. He appeared equally enthusiastic about travel, and they had only just dipped into their engagements abroad when Sir Percy found them in their corner.

 

“Sir Anderson!” He clapped him roughly on the shoulder, oblivious to the strength that nearly buckled the knees of the shorter man. “Where have you been? Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and I have been waiting for you to join us in the study.”

 

He startled, “Is it eleven o’ clock already?”

 

“It was eleven o’ clock some twenty minutes ago.” For a man kept waiting he was in a cheery mood, expression ever placid. His blue eyes flickered to Kurt’s, curiosity evident in their shallow depth. “I hope you do not mind, Lord Hummel, if I take him.”

 

“He is yours.” Kurt smiled cordially. “If there was an arranged time, it must be an important meeting.”

 

Sir Percy dismissed the notion. “No, not terribly so. Just some trading propositions.” He shared a look with the younger man, and made to leave with him, “If you’ll excuse us…”

 

Sir Anderson stepped to follow, but turned back to Kurt, not wanting to leave without proper farewells. “Will you be in the country for some time?”

 

“I have no trips planned.”

 

“Good. I will send you an invitation to my family’s estate.” His confidence floundered, “We can continue our meeting there, if you would like, I mean.”

 

Kurt agreed without thinking, unleashing Sir Anderson’s charming smile once more, and then he was gone, off into the crowd, resigned to a deeper room of the mansion. Gradually, the upturn of Kurt’s lips became a pursed line. It was not often he formed friendships with men. He preferred the company of women, of safety. Kurt Hummel did not take risks. Or he had not taken risks, until now.

 

Marguerite must have been watching, because she linked their arms within minutes of her husband and Sir Anderson’s leaving. He expected her to ask how he liked her guest, but she did not. Instead, she asked him in an excited whisper, “What did you say was in the coach for me?” It was a distraction he sorely needed.

 

He would make himself sick with regret, and worry, and doomed hopes later.

 

For now, he would drape a gorgeous silk shawl around the shoulders of Lady Marguerite Blakeney, and modestly accept her praise of his gift.

 


	2. The Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt receives an invitation to the Anderson manor.

The invitation arrived two weeks after their evening at Richmond.

 

It was delivered by a young messenger, round-faced and eager who, without the least prodding, promptly informed Kurt of the latest developments in Sir Anderson’s life. It was doubtful these words were part of his sending, but the boy was excitable and when asked about the man he served, he nearly waxed poetic of him. Kurt listened politely, caught between amused and bemused; it spoke well of Sir Anderson’s character to have his staff speak fondly of him.

 

Finally, he offered the news Kurt was waiting to hear. If available, he was welcome to the Anderson manor any day of this week, invited even this day, though it was nearly evening. Kurt considered the immediate proposition, but decided it would be a flight of fancy to leave then, and so he dismissed it. He had work to finish, and a manor to prepare for his father’s return. He would leave in the morning.

 

“What is your name?” He asked the boy.

 

“Trenton,” He answered, flustered at having forgotten an introduction. Kurt did not tell him Sir Anderson had done the same.

 

“Trenton, if you are not pressed to return, rest for the night.” Relief sagged the messenger’s shoulders, and Kurt wondered if his was the last of many errands for him. “You can give your horse to the stable hands. I will have a room prepared, and send dinner up after you. Tomorrow, you can lead the way to Sir Anderson’s estate.”

 

“Thank you, Lord Hummel.” He bowed in gratitude and scurried off— in the wrong direction, Kurt noted, but it was too late to correct him. He would find his way.

 

“Shall I make the guest bed?”

 

He looked at the young woman who’d spoken. She had been the one to bring Trenton to him, and had remained to listen. Sweet but rather dizzy, she had grown up with Kurt on the manor. “Please, Brittany, if you would.”

 

She too bowed, but when she looked up, her vacant expression lit with recognition, “Captain!”

 

Kurt turned to follow her gaze, finding an all-too-familiar coach coming up the drive. His father was home.

 

Lord Burt Hummel owned several ports on the water, in the business of building and repairing ships. As a child, Brittany mistook his seafaring work to be more than engineering, and “Captain” had stuck ever since. Kurt smiled when the horses came to a stop, and his father emerged from the carriage.

 

“Kurt!” The man greeted, elated beyond simple ‘I missed you’s, “Kurt! You will never believe the news!” He stepped down onto the gravel and pulled his son in tight.

 

Kurt was startled, clueless as to what his father spoke of. “What? What news?”

 

Shining blue eyes met his confused ones, and after a pause just long enough to make his son impatient, he said, “We’ve been commissioned by the King.”

 

His jaw drop was comical, “ _ What? _ ”

 

Burt laughed. “I’ll explain over supper.” He began up the stairs, urging his immobile son to follow, “Come on, Kurt, I’m famished from travel.”

  
  


It was only once they were seated that Burt’s good humor gave way to serious discussion. While the opportunity was grand, it was not for grand reasons. The threat of war with France loomed on the horizon. Parliament decreed that the manpower of the Royal Navy be increased to 45,000 men, and those men upon 600 ships. There was a great much to build, and in limited time, but the reward for accepting the commission was great.

 

“You agreed to the conditions?”

 

“Of course,” Burt said between thanks to the servants who’d set their dinner down, “The pay and prestige will secure our future business, and even if I’d declined, they would have simply gone elsewhere. It is not as if my denouncement would have prevented any war. It will, or won’t, happen regardless.”

 

Kurt didn’t respond, picking up his silverware to cut into the vegetables. After a few bites, he asked, “What do you need me to do?”

 

“Nothing more than you already do, though I might have you check on construction progress more often.” Burt had already set into his meat, “I do ask you not to travel out of the country, however. It’s more for your own safety than need of your assistance, but I do need you. I heard dreadful rumors in London.”

 

“About France?”

 

“It is always about France.” He shook his head, disapproval evident in his brow. With a sigh, he changed the course of conversation, “That fine Marguerite had her ball while I was gone, didn’t she? Shame you couldn’t court her before Sir Blakeney.”

 

“He loves her far better than I ever could have,” was his response. It should have been a light alteration to their chatter, but it weighed even heavier in Kurt’s heart. “The estate is magnificent, and I think you would like the man.”

 

He shared details of the evening, those suitable to his father’s ears, and mentioned he would be meeting again with Sir Percy’s friend. His father did not read into the invitation, just praised him for becoming acquainted with such people of influence and told him to inquire after the other man’s trade. It never hurt to know a dealer of fine goods.

 

Kurt loved his father with all the devotion a son could feel, but as they talked business, he wished (not for the first time) for something more personal, more him, more them, than they had.

 

* * *

 

They started out just after dawn. The air was lightly chilled, the sky overcast, and the last tendrils of morning fog swirling around the wheels of his coach and the bays’ lean legs. Up ahead, Kurt could hear the unhurried trot of a third horse, Trenton leading the way. The Anderson estate was not terribly far, only a couple hours travel from his home. It seemed, in fact, a halfway point to the Blakeney manor, and if this meeting worked out well and friendly, he would find himself visiting the beautiful Marguerite with more frequency.

 

Kurt spent his time in the coach trying not to think. It was a difficult task. His mind was alive with excitement and fear, not just about Sir Anderson, but about his father’s latest commission. To silence loud worries, he took to watching the landscape. Morning melted slowly into day, wisps of vapor vanishing with the sun’s glittering emergence, reflecting specs of light off droplets of dew in the grass and on tree leaves. Small towns were scattered among the hills. He could spy them some distance off, church steeples beacons in the bluing atmosphere.

 

He must have dozed off at some point, lulled to sleep by the carriage’s gentle rocking and a poor night’s rest. He was awoken by his driver opening the door and folding down the steps, “Lord Kurt, we have arrived.”

 

“Thank you, Artie.”

 

Kurt took a moment to gather his bearings, combing fingers through his hair, checking his cufflinks and cravat, smoothing out any wrinkles from his beige trousers and periwinkle coat. He stood and descended into the bright afternoon.

 

The manor was immaculate. With only one sweep of his eyes, he was made aware of the Anderson fortune and taste. Impeccably kept gardens, filled with plants he could not identify, their flowers a spectrum of color. There were several buildings on the estate, but the grandest was directly before him, all white, with marble pillars and steps, grand windows and scalloped trim. It was only a small bit of the manor, just what he could see stepping out of his coach, but it was enough. He was impressed.

 

Trenton had left his horse to enter the mansion, no doubt seeking his employer to inform him of his guest. Kurt patted himself down a second time, feeling a fool for his jittery nerves. Sir Anderson was not looking for him to be anything other than a friend, if that. Maybe he was also interested in business. He sighed at the thought.

 

The magnificent doors opened. Kurt looked up, heart palpitating despite his internal scolding, and was swiftly disappointed after seeing it was not his host exiting. It was a slender woman, tan skinned and dark haired. She was lovely, but there was something sharp about her. She was dressed modestly, a maid or a cook perhaps, but she approached him with the authority of a gentleman. “Sir Blaine went for his morning ride not an hour ago, but he should return soon.”

 

There was no bowing, no polite pleasantries. Her eyes raked over him, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like a man on trial. Still, he could not demand respect from her; he was privileged, not pompous, and if Sir Anderson’s help happened to be judgmental of his guests, there was nothing he could do but hope for approval. Their eyes met. He fought an urge to flinch. A knowing smirk pulled at her full lips, “Would you like a drink, Lord Hummel? Lunch will be ready soon, but until then, anything?”

 

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

 

She moved past him to offer the same to Artie, who took her up on the offer, and followed her back into the manor, this time through a door around the side. Trenton had the reigns of his coach, tending to the horses, and walked them away to the stable.

 

Kurt was at a loss. Normally one would be invited inside, sat in a parlor to wait, or given some instruction. Instead, he was left by himself. He shifted awkwardly, looking around. The radiant colors of the garden recaptured his interest, and he set across the lawn to admire the flora up close.

  
  


He could not have been in the garden more than ten minutes when he heard his name. He turned from inspecting a vibrant orange lily, a familiar figure jogging towards him. He lifted his hand to wave, smiling as the man approached. He was somewhat out of breath once he reached the garden, curls array, dressed in riding britches. Still, for someone in mild disarray, he was stunning, the sun catching in ringlets of his hair. His warm brown eyes were flecked with gold and concern, “I’m greatly sorry about that.”

 

“About what?”

 

“Santana,” he supplied, “her skills are in cooking, not in hospitality. I am sorry you were waiting out here.”

Kurt had already forgotten about the woman, “I do not mind.” He reassured him, “I wanted to admire the garden. I might have stayed outside regardless.”

 

Sir Anderson seemed placated by his words. “There are more gardens down past the stables, if you are interested in botany. We can visit them later.” He gestured back to the manor, “Lunch is ready now, if you’d join me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Kurt followed him inside, was guided to an ornate dining room, then left to himself as Sir Anderson went to change. In that time, he washed in hands in the provided basin, and dried them while taking in the décor. Sir Anderson was back before he could contemplate the origin of the china. Lunch was unusual, but a treat, made of dishes Kurt had never tried. They discussed the food, the cook, the cook’s temper, and a number of related things, and all the while, Kurt could only think how comfortable he was, past nerves left somewhere between his coach and the manor entrance.

 

When they were finished, Sir Anderson suggested they move to his study. He led Kurt to the door, and told him to settle in while he went briefly to get them drinks. Kurt watched the man retreat down the hall, and might have admired the lines of his shoulders in his tailored jacket until he vanished from view. Feeling quite pleased with the visit so far, he pushed open the door to the study. There were high ceilings, tall windows that overlooked the estate, and rows and rows of books. The content smile on his face grew wider.

 

There was no ulterior motive to Kurt’s curiosity. It was simply that the study was lovely and large, and books were something so aesthetically and intellectually pleasing to him. His father had never cared much for literature, being a pragmatic man, and the artist in Kurt mourned the lack of diversity in their home library growing up. He had his mother’s taste, he knew, but he had never known her. It might have been another reason Burt avoided the whimsy, reminded too much of a wife he sorely loved and lost upon the birth of his son.

 

Up and down the short aisles, glancing at the titles of novels, memoirs, and rudimentary scientific journals, Kurt was satisfied. He was broken from his quiet appreciation by a soft shuffle of paper. He turned, expecting Sir Anderson, but the room remained empty. “That’s odd,” he thought.

 

Back to the shelves of literary gold, he had hardly taken four more steps before he heard it again. A distinct rustling. He froze, fighting down a superstitious chill. “Hello?”

 

“Hello?” His own voice echoed.

 

The acoustics of the room did not lend itself to echoes.

 

Kurt took a deep breath to steady his nerves. The attempt was in vain. No sooner did he let out a sigh did he feel a heavy weight upon his shoulder, prickling nails pressing into his skin. In the corner of his vision there was a brilliant flash of red. He screamed. The creature on him screeched. It tumbled from him as he ran for the door. He slammed it closed behind him in panic.

 

“Lord Hummel?”

 

“S-Sir Anderson,” He gasped. “Please do not think me insane, but there is some sort of creature in your study.”

 

The man blinked in surprised, standing there in the hall with two glasses of brandy. He stared at his frightened guest. “A creature?”

 

“Red, with talons, I think.”

 

“Oh,” the confusion melted away to amusement, “That’s just Cooper.”

 

“Cooper?”

 

Sir Anderson handed Kurt his glass and used his free hand to turn the brass handle. Kurt would never admit to it, but he did keep close to his companion’s back, shielding himself from whatever lurked inside.

 

His eyes scanned the room, and there it was; the creature was some sort of bird, currently perched on the back of a chair. It was grooming itself on the spot, ruffling crimson, cerulean, and golden feathers with its large beak. It was the biggest, brightest bird he had ever seen. “What is a ‘Cooper’?”

 

Sir Anderson laughed. The Cooper moved to stare at him, beady black eyes blinking, head cocking to the side, taking them in. “Cooper is his name,” he explained. “He’s a macaw from South America. My father brought him home as a chick, years before I was born.” He held out his arm and the bird took to graceful short flight, landing on the crook of his elbow. “I’m sorry I did not think to warn you. I’ve known him my whole life, so I forget.”

 

Kurt tried to overcome his previous scare and current awe. “A bird can live that long?”

 

“Seems so, he’ll be two-and-thirty this year.”

 

“Remarkable.”

 

“When he is not being a terror, yes.” He ran his fingers along the creature’s slender back and down his long tail feathers, “Say hello to our guest, Cooper.” The bird remained silent. Sir Anderson did not have to convince him of its abilities, though. He had heard it talk once. He believed it could again. “He’s a bit temperamental.”

 

“That’s all right,” Kurt settled himself into one of the chairs, “I did come to speak with you, after all.”

 

Sir Anderson grinned. Cooper fluttered off his arm and over to the desk, where he began plucking papers from a stack and letting them drift to the floor.

 

“Is he allowed to do that?”

 

Sir Anderson shrugged, taking the chair adjacent to Kurt’s, a small ivory table between them. “I could tell him to stop, but he would not.” He glanced down to the floor and the parchment, “If they were important, they should have been put away, and I am not risking my fingers to do so.”

 

Kurt looked to his own hands, to Cooper, and back, making note to never let that beak near him again. “So, Sir Anderson—”

 

“Blaine,” he said genially, “Blaine is fine.”

 

“Blaine,” Kurt smiled, glad for dropped formalities, “I saw a number of atlas here. I imagine some must be for your family’s trading business, but you mentioned briefly the last time we were together you enjoyed travel?”

 

“I do, very much.”

 

It turned out, he had seen and enjoyed much more than Kurt, who had limited himself to Europe. Blaine had seen the Americas, Africa, Asia— his mother was from Southeast Asia, he learned. His father had fallen in love with a wealthy port trader’s daughter, and when he left with silks and spices, he left too with a bride. It made for a romantic story. Even now, Lady Anderson traveled with her husband everywhere. They were now in Virginia, settling the last arrangements with a tobacco plantation.

 

Travel lead back into their shared passion for the arts, and Kurt listened intensely to stories of theater overseas, and was then guided through the mansion to a showcase of exotic sculptures, paintings, and garb. Kurt fell in love with robes from Malaysia and beaded tunics from North America.

 

“You could never visit the Hummel Manor,” he decided out loud after setting down a beautiful conch horn, “I have nothing half so interesting to show you.”

 

“You would have no need.” Blaine said. “I am only showing you these things because I myself am not half so interesting as you. They keep you here when I alone would fail to.”

 

Kurt laughed, the notion ridiculous. “Blaine, you undersell yourself.”

 

“And you are too modest.”

 

Eventually, they came back to the study. Cooper slumbered on his perch. They had just sat when there was a timid knock at the door, Trenton coming in when beckoned. In his hands he held thick, yellowing paper, the folds of it sealed with a red wax, the design of which Kurt couldn’t make out from a distance. Blaine took the note, thanked the boy, and looking at it, the genuine smile slipped off his face, replaced temporality with terse lips that upturned in a fake enthusiasm within moments. He set the unopened note on the desk. “What was I saying?”

 

“Something about The King’s Theater and a new opera…”

 

“Oh, yes,  _ Dido, Queen of Carthage _ !”

 

Yet, despite talk of someone adapting the fourth book of Virgil's  _ Aeneid _ to the stage, Kurt could tell Blaine’s mind was not on his subject. His gaze continuously flickered back to the desk, to the crimson sealed paper, to the point it was silly he should speak before addressing it. “I will not pretend to know what that letter holds, but you are free to open it. I won’t be offended.”

 

“No, thank you, it’s all right.” He answered, embarrassed at the diverted topic, “It can wait for later.”

 

“When you are alone? Is it a love letter, perhaps?” He teased. “Some secret romance?”

 

“No, no,” and this he denied fervently, “There is no lady I wish to court. It is the last thing from my mind.”

 

“You and I both.” Whether or not their refusals of women were based in the same reason, he knew not, but it was comforting to know he would not be dismissed in favor of petticoats. Their eyes latched for a long moment, and just as Blaine opened his mouth, Cooper spread his magnificent wings, took flight, and landed on the desk. Trenton must have woken him.

 

Both men watched the bird take the note into his beak. Immediately, Blaine was on his feet, reaching out a tentative and pleading hand, “Cooper, no. Not that one. Give it to me.”

 

Not a love letter, Kurt told himself, but a letter important enough to endanger his fingers.

 

Cooper turned his head, clamping down, and while the paper crinkled, it did not rip. Blaine picked up several pages from the floor, offering them in the message’s stead. It took several attempts, but Blaine managed to save the letter. Kurt clapped as if it’d been for show. Blaine laughed, both at the action and in relief. Then, not risking the note’s end before his reading of it, he tore open the seal and unfolded it.

 

Kurt waited politely as his eyes scanned the words. When he finished, he tore the paper in half, in quarters, and into even smaller pieces, tossing its bits into the unlit fireplace. Kurt raised an eyebrow, but did not audibly question him, especially now that his smile had returned. Good news, maybe? But why destroy it?

 

“I think I would like some tea. How about you?”

 

It seemed they would not speak of whatever the letter held. “Please.”

 

The whole day and evening passed in pleasant ways, their conversations light, sometimes serious, but always interesting to the invested party. Kurt spent the night in a lavish guest suite, falling asleep with his heart warm, and in the morning they parted with the promise of meeting in London. They would attend an opera together the following Saturday.

 

They encountered each other sooner.

 

Kurt did not return home after leaving the Anderson estate. Instead, he instructed Artie to take them to the lake, and there, the Blakeney manor. His visit was wholly welcome. He stayed two nights, and on the morning of the third day, he opened his chamber door to see an unexpected man walk past. “Blaine?” It might have been days since they spoke, but not one hour had passed without fond thoughts of him.

 

Blaine looked curiously to who had called him, nearly tripping when their eyes met, “Kurt! What are you…?”

 

“Marguerite.”

 

“Oh, yes, of course.”

 

“And you are here for Sir Percy, I take it.”

 

“Indeed. We have business.”

 

A strange silence lingered between them, two people clearly off to prior engagements they suddenly had little wish to pursue. Kurt shut the chamber door behind him. “I will see you to the study.”

 

This pulled a smile from Blaine’s lips, and they walked without speaking, comfortable until parting. Kurt glimpsed several other men in the room, at least two of whom looked vaguely familiar, and the tall man that was Sir Percy Blakeney. He called a cheerful, “Good morrow!” to Kurt, who inclined his head, and continued down the corridor to Marguerite’s parlor.

  
  


The afternoon was a pleasant gathering, almost a small and not entirely planned party, with both Sir Percy and Marguerite’s guests all staying for lunch. Kurt and Blaine found each other in the array, and smiling, took their seats together in the grand dining hall. “How was your business?”

 

“Boring, I am sure, compared to what occupied you.”

 

“Perhaps you should come to the next parlor.”

 

“If Lady Blakeney will have me, I would be honored.”

 

That night, Kurt returned Blaine to the Anderson manor. Since he would pass the estate on his way, it made sense to offer him the shared coach. Blaine’s horse trotted along beside them, obedient without his rider. When they said farewells, Blaine mentioned he would be out of the country for a couple of days, but he promised to be back in time for their theater appointment.

 

Therefore, it was with slight trepidation Kurt waited outside the opera that Saturday. It was not that he did not trust Blaine, but that he did not trust the world to always deliver one safely home.

 

He did not need to worry.

 

A scarlet clad arm slipped into his, tugging him gently towards the open doors, “I never thought it would be so easy to find you.” Blaine said grinning.

 

Kurt’s heart jolted at his voice, his touch. He blamed it on being startled.

 

They entered the theater, took an embellished stairway up, and past a set of heavy velvet curtains on the third tier, entered the Anderson’s private box. There were four cushioned chairs, drinks, and waiting opera glasses. They sat in the two seats nearest the balcony, the stage below slightly angled, but in perfect view.

 

The opera began.

 

In truth, it was not a particularly memorable score. The singers were decent, with only one impressive, and the sets left details to be desired. Still, it would be an opera Kurt never forgot, because in the dim flickering candles of the theater, Blaine had leaned over to whisper commentary in his ear, “That aria was wonderful, don’t you think?” His hand was laid atop Kurt’s, yet even as his body moved back, comfortable in his own seat, that hand remained: warm, slightly calloused, and perfectly distracting from the whole stage before them.

 

* * *

  
  


It was two months later that Kurt discovered their relationship— their friendship, companionship, whatever it was— was in grave danger.

 

Kurt was, against all rational thought and internal conflict, in love. He had known from the start it might come to this end. It certainly had not helped that Blaine was consistently kind, charming, and comfortable in close proximity. Not a week went by without a stay at the other’s manor, without an outing, without hours spent together.

 

Kurt had never been happier, or more miserable, than he was in Blaine’s company. He had finally found someone who adored him, wanted to be beside him, but it was not romance, not really. Kurt could imagine it was, if he wanted. It would be easy to take an offered hand to mean more than guidance in a dark room, and it was true that sometimes, sometimes it really did  _ seem _ like more, but he could never be confident.

 

Then, there was the night that changed everything, all assumption, all expectation.

 

They were in the study, the cool dark evening warmed and brightening by the fire in the grate. Blaine was, as he often was, breathtaking in the glow, eyes like liquid gold, and if Kurt allowed himself fantasy, they were looking at him with a passion yet unspoken.

 

There was a note in his hands, similar to the one Kurt had seen on his first visit, and like that note, it was destroyed upon reading. The flames licked hungrily at the parchment in the fireplace, melting the wax seal, erasing the inked words from existence. Kurt expected Blaine to return to their previous discussion, to leave the letter unaddressed. He did not.

 

“In France, it is not a revolution, but a war on humanity.” Instead of taking his seat, he paced. “The committee abolished the monarchy, and as much as I view all life as being of equal worth, I do not feel that notion should be expressed in violence. You do not kill a king to show he is mortal.”

 

Kurt startled in his chair, “They sent King Louis XVI to his death?”

 

“No,” Blaine said calmly, “Not yet. I do fear it is only a matter of time.” He sighed, staring out the black window before returning his gaze to his guest. “Time is a precious thing, Kurt. It is, unfortunately, how we measure life. I would rather it be measured in something else, something greater.” He walked over, boots soft on the oriental carpet, and knelt in front of him. His hands rested on the arms of the chair, sealing him in place. “I think you might understand.”

 

“I might.” Kurt could not foresee where the conversation would lead. The man looked up at him through long lashes, and Kurt's eyes were drawn to lips parting in speech. Never before had he felt a stronger desire to kiss that mouth.

 

“I knew from the moment I saw you, you were different.” He confessed, “Beautiful, yes, but even more brilliant. You appreciate art, physical manifestations of the human mind, and so I know you must possess a great capacity for love.” His hands fell from the chair, his fingers finding Kurt’s in his lap, holding them tightly. “Your wit, your skill, your experience— so much about you is of value beyond wealth or time.”

 

Blaine took a deep breath, seeming to steady his nerves. “Kurt, I realize it might be a heavy request, and my heart is both terrified and exuberant at the thought, but if you would, let our mutual interests come together in a bold venture.”

 

Kurt felt his own heart near to bursting in his chest, disbelieving, hoping, anxiously waiting to hear the appeal. “What sort of venture?”

 

“Will you join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

 


	3. The Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The league heads to France.

_ Will you join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel? _

 

Of everything Kurt had expected Blaine to ask him, of all the things he had foolishly let himself hope and pine for, never once did it cross his mind that Blaine’s motives for winning his favor would be this.

 

He could only gape at the man, stunned into silence. In his heart, there was a mysterious absence of feeling, the calm before a storm.

 

Blaine had not released his hands. “That letter I just burned was of urgent demand, and I must be ready to depart Dover before dawn. It shan’t take long. Two days at the most. Please, will you wait for me here? Give me your answer when I return.”

 

Kurt had nodded, his words lodged deep within, suffocating under the weight of what he suddenly knew. Blaine left then, in the fastening of a cloak, and Kurt followed him in numb shadow to the front of the manor. The horse was waiting. Blaine swung himself onto the saddle with ease, turning back only once. Their eyes met. The handsome man smiled.

 

Why was he smiling?

 

With the snapping of reigns and the retreating thunder of hooves, Kurt found himself alone. It was several moments before he reacted, and when he did, the force that drove him was nothing resembling the warmth he had felt earlier in the evening. No, that affectionate flame had become a raging fire. He was livid.

 

“Trenton.” The boy startled to attention, not yet gone from bringing Blaine his bay. “My horse, please. Leave the coach.”

 

“Right away, Lord Hummel.”

  
  


He was off then too, into the pitch darkness, the wind uncomfortable and chilly as it breathed into his clothing and hair. Some part of him thought to follow Blaine, to stop him on his path and demand answers. The  _ what _ of the Scarlet Pimpernel? He could hear the buzzing whispers from all those nights ago in his ears, still feel the distant thrill of curiosity, of wonder. To think he had been in awe! The memory mocked him, and he could see those beautiful honey eyes across the room, amused, amused! It was not laughter at Sir Percy in the least. He was listening. He was laughing. He knew.

 

Kurt should have known.

 

Now that the words had been spoken so bluntly, it was obvious. The clothing, the mysterious letters, the sudden and unexplained travel! How had Kurt not seen? How did he not suspect? The Scarlet Pimpernel led a loyal band of men— how else was that loyalty gained? Blaine had built with him a secure and affable friendship. It was nothing of greater significant. Bitterly, Kurt thought, it was business, after all. Not about art, or hearts, or  _ them _ , but about the lives of innocent people. Rage evaded him for a moment, chest filled with pride that turned to horror. Blaine was in danger. Blaine was asking him to face that danger together.

 

Kurt was not selfish. He was, as most gentleman, modest in his sharing, charitable without expectation of repayment. He was a philanthropist. He would happily dedicate his time and his wealth to aiding the development of talent. He would do almost anything for a cause he believed in, but that “anything” fell short of sacrificing his life. If he were dead, that would be the end, and what good could he do then? It was his personal difficulty with accepting war and other pointless bloodshed. So, you must understand, Kurt was a selfless man, but he was not a martyr.

 

To fight off panic, he came back to his anger, and while he somewhat blamed Blaine for his misery, he mostly blamed himself. He could have stopped himself from developing these romantic feelings, removed himself from the source of temptation. He could have done a lot of things, but he did not, and he was left feeling foolish for hoping he ever stood a chance at that sort of happiness. He had read the situation entirely wrong.

 

He wished he had run that night. He wished he had taken their walk-- Blain’s face, and his crimson jacket -- and stored them in fond nostalgia where they never would have hurt him. But, even if he had, it would not have mattered.

 

They were meant to meet— meant to by Fate, and by the dainty hand of the former Marguerite St. Just.

 

He thought to follow Blaine, but he refrained. Instead, the night found him at the Blakeney manor, in the salon of the woman who had changed his life, so often for the best, and now, for the worst. She was alone, doing needlework by the fireside. She had taken one look at his expression and knew he was not there for friendly visitation, but she did not speak. He took a seat across from her on velvet cushions and gathered his complaints. She waited, threading, humming.

 

Finally, he spoke. “Given that you introduced us, I can only assume you knew.”

 

Marguerite’s fine eyebrows arched, “Knew what?”

 

“What he would ask of me. What he could possibly want me for.”

 

She did not answer, face blank and in that manner too telling. The fire popped an ember onto the hearth. Neither of them moved to put it out, watching the glow sizzle and fade into char.

 

His grievance escaped his lips, “What lead you to think I’d want this?” His blue eyes reflected the flames beneath the mantle, “Why would you think I’d risk my life and join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

 

With that, the detached expression vanished, “Join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel?” She echoed, beautiful voice climbing octaves, “He asked you to  _ what _ ?”

 

“Come, Marguerite, stop your acting. You knew he would.”

 

“No,  _ no _ ,” she huffed up from her lavish perch, “I would never ask you to risk your life, Kurt,” her eyes burned with the same intensity his had, “I introduced you so you would  _ save his _ .”

 

His back stiffened, any biting words forgotten in shock. “I…”

 

“Blaine has a noble heart, but it is also a heart too big.” She settled back into the decorative pillows. “He believes that good can only triumph, and to some extent, it does, but that truth is not infallible. There is a limit, a literal human capacity, to any mission he undertakes.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean, not everyone can be saved.”

 

Kurt sighed deeply, fingers moving to massage his temples. “You want me to convince the Scarlet Pimpernel to stop what he is doing? To let the guillotine have her prey?”

 

Confusion creased her brow. “No, Heavens no, Kurt, why would I— oh, tell me you do not think Blaine is the Scarlet Pimpernel. What did he say to you?”

 

“He gave me no details, but asked me to join the League.”

 

“How strange, Blaine does not have the authority to...” She paused, realizing, “Kurt, I fear my husband and I have had a misunderstanding.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Percy is the man you have mistaken Blaine for, and it seems I have accidentally placed it in his mind you would be fitting for the League, when I meant only that you would be fitting for Blaine.”

 

Kurt wondered when he had fallen asleep and begun to dream this strange world— surely in the chair, in Blaine’s study, right before he’d burned the paper; he had been tired then. Or maybe even that was a dream. Blaine could not be the Scarlet Pimpernel, nor could the fashionable fop of England, Sir Percy Blakeney, be the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was too outlandish. And yet.

 

And yet.

 

He believed it. The cleverest woman in Europe had not married a fool. It was an act, one more guise worn by the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel. “How could Sir Percy think you intended me for the League?”

 

“Because he does not know you.” She set her needlework to the side, gaze straying to the fire. “I should have explained. I will. To you, at the very least.” She returned her eyes to his, “Do you know why Percy recruited Blaine?”

 

“I suppose it’s something to do with his proximity?”

 

“Not one bit. They met in France. His family estate within two hours from ours was no more than coincidence.” She stroked absentmindedly at the rings adorning her fingers. “Blaine had heard the stories of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and he had taken it upon himself to mimic his actions. He was trying to smuggle a baroness and her son from Choisy, and he might have been successful, except that he ended up with four more of the family’s loyal servants in his cart. Too many people to sneak past the city guard. He was caught, and that is where Percy found him, jailed with the family he too had come to rescue.”

 

“Once on my husband’s ship, the situation was explained, and Blaine was invited to join the League. You’ve never seen a man so happy. I was there, heard everything, and so I knew from the start Blaine would be as great of a hindrance as he was an asset. Twice he nearly foiled an escape by trying to save more people than could be stealthily done. Percy admires his bravado too much to scold him badly, but it is dangerous. By trying to rescue beyond his means, he is jeopardizing his safety and that of the League. I needed him to think before acting. When I received your positive response to the ball, the solution presented itself to me.”

 

“You hoped my strategic nature would influence him?” He assumed.

 

“I imagine that’s what Percy inferred.” She smiled sweet and small. “I hoped it would be your heart.”

 

Kurt’s breath stuttered in his chest. Marguerite could not possibly know. He folded his shaking hands together, hiding his visible and sudden nerves. “Marguerite…” He did not know what to say, if he should deny his apparently obvious affections, or feign ignorance.

 

“Of all my benefactors,” she began, “You were the only one to never seek any physical reimbursement. They would hold my waist, or kiss my neck, asking for more that I would refuse to give. It was not about my voice, or my acting. It was about an object they could buy.” She stood, gown dusting the deep sanguine carpets, and sat beside him. Her hands laid gently on his. “Of course, you could simply be a respectable gentleman, but I had my suspicions…”

 

The burning wood popped a second ember to the floor. She went on.

 

“There were several things Blaine asked Percy when he joined, and among all the usual, there was one new. I was struck by his honesty. He said, ‘Sir Blakeney, I am a homosexual. Will this offend you or cause any trouble?’”

 

Kurt’s heart continued to race, feeling it close to breaking, or exploding, or simply stopping all together. His voice was high, cracked as he asked, “What did Percy say?”

 

“‘Put on the demmed wig and rags. We have one more rescue tonight.’ And after basking in Blaine’s stunned silence, he said, ‘I do not care, and my men follow my lead. What you are matters far less than who you are, and who you are is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.’”

 

It should not have affected him as strongly as it did, Blaine’s sexuality was not a shocking revelation, but Percy’s acceptance of him— the gravity of that was more than he could bear. He was jealous, and relieved, and confused more than ever what it meant. There were tears in his eyes he prayed Marguerite could not see. “You introduced us…”

 

“The way you looked at him, I knew. I was glad each time you were together. If Blaine had someone to love, he would not be rash, he would have a reason to be cautious, to make sure to return to you.”

 

“Did you think of me?”

 

“I thought you would be happy, Kurt, to have the companionship you denied yourself so long.”

 

He held her hands tightly in his. “You were right.”

 

She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Come with me to Dover in two days. Percy is expecting me, but Blaine will be pleasantly surprised by the welcoming party of two.”

 

* * *

  
  


Dover held one of his father’s ports, and so Kurt was no stranger to the town, or to the small inn by the waterside. “The Fisherman’s Rest” welcomed him and his friend with familiarity. The two sat comfortably by the fire inside, sharing a pot of stew and half a loaf of bread, weary from the night’s travel, but pleased to be eating something warm. It was a half hour after they arrived that a letter came to them, delivered into Marguerite’s hands by a workman on the shore.

 

Kurt asked if it was normal, if Percy was giving her directions on where to meet him, but she shook her head. Gone was the lighthearted banter from their day together, and she took up a new form; not the pampered wife of a nobleman, but the tactical partner of the Scarlet Pimpernel. “If we are lucky, there is but a small setback. A delay. And they will be here today or tomorrow.”

 

“And if we are unlucky?”

 

She did not answer, tearing open the crimson seal Kurt recognized. Her eyes scanned the words, but her face expressed nothing. If it was bad news, her lips would pout, wouldn’t they? Or her eyebrows frown? He had begun to ease the tension in his shoulders when she spoke, “Blaine has been arrested. They are assessing the situation now, and will write again when action is decided.”

 

“You say calmly,” he tugged the letter from her hands, “You must be joking.”

 

She was not.

 

The giddy anticipation he had felt at seeing Blaine again vanished, replaced with something much akin to dread. “They’ll kill him.”

 

“Unless we do something, then yes.” She paid their dues to the innkeeper, and made for the door. Once they were out of any person’s eavesdropping range, she let him in on her thoughts. “They do not seem to know he is part of the League, or Percy has given me no indication they do. If that is the case, we have time. There is no rush to send him to the guillotine, and their false pretense of ‘justice’ will get him a hearing at the courts, if nothing else. ”

 

“What do we do?”

 

They had taken a path down to the docks. The morning wind whipped against them, and the salty mist of waves, gray and lapping against the shore, stuck to their skin. “What do we do?” She echoed, for the first time since they had read the letter sounding amused. She looked to the anchored boats before them, “You have a ship, do you not?”

 

Some rational voice protested what she implied, that they were about to set sail to France. It was unwise and dangerous. A much louder voice encouraged the idea. He wanted Blaine back, safe and soon. The only way he could guarantee that would be to take action, be there himself, do whatever he could do— even if it killed him. It was better, he decided in that moment, to take the risk. “Six hundred of them, if that is what it takes.”

 

She smiled at him. “One is sufficient. The second will be waiting off the shore of Calais.”

 

* * *

  
  


The second ship was Percy’s magnificent craft the  _ Day Dream _ . She was anchored some distance from the coast of France, close enough to send a smaller boat to shore, but far enough to be out of firing range if someone were to know its purpose and attack from land. Kurt and Marguerite were hoisted on board, and Kurt bid his own captain return to Dover. Percy was nowhere to be seen. A short discussion with the crew let them know he was on land. She did not have to ask where.

 

In the main cabin were several chests filled with clothes from lavish fashion to threadbare rags. Marguerite sorted through the outfits, as if taking some mental inventory, and eventually produced what seemed to be a government official’s wardrobe. She threw the uniform to Kurt. “What is this?”

 

“Your disguise,  _ Monsieur _ .”

 

She pulled something from the chest for herself, and slipped behind a wooden space divider for privacy, talking to him through the visual barrier, “We possess fourteen uniforms of the Gendarmerie Nationale. There are nine here. Percy and his men must be wearing the rest.”

 

Kurt eyed the garment warily. There might be something about the military design that was visually appealing en mass, but he had never wished to don such clothing. Made for heavy wear, the stiff fabric was sure to chaff his skin. Ruefully, he reminded himself, “It is for love,” and discarded his fine linen in favor of the navy blue guise.

 

It could get no worse, he thought, until Marguerite handed him a ratty black wig. At his groan, she laughed. “There is a two-piece one left, if you would rather a beard attached.”

 

“No.” He fitted the wig over his hair, irrationally thankful for the uniform cap he could fashion it beneath. He rearranged the synthetic fibers and she rolled her eyes.

 

“If Percy had only known how fussy you are,” she teased, swatting his hands from his head, and pulling him away from the cabin’s mirror.

 

* * *

 

It was well past noon when they found their destination, a dilapidated wayside inn called the “Chat Gris” on the outskirts of Calais. The streets smelt of rotting fish and stale bread, and their ears were filled with the sound of squalor begging and distant waves. It was a far cry from the previously esteemed Paris, though Kurt doubted any piece of France was better off than this waterfront town.

 

They pushed open the half-broken door, paint chipping away at their touch. The foyer of the inn was diminutive, and with five men sat at the only dining table, there was hardly room to enter. It was a hot, cramped, and repulsive space. The men looked up from their whispers, the lot of them dressed as a squad of the Gendarmerie Nationale. The largest of them stood, his figure imposing in the too small room, the cap of his uniform skimming the ceiling. He was burly, hunched over, his face unrecognizable beneath a gray curled mop of hair and an untrimmed beard.

 

It was logic only, and no credit to his eyesight, that Kurt knew the man to be Sir Percy Blakeney.

 

“Have you a plan yet?” Marguerite asked once she had shut the door behind them.

 

“Not yet, my dear.” He responded, giving up his chair to her. “Have you?”

 

“I might.”

  
  


The plan was, or seemed at the time of its telling, flawless. Escorted by guards, Marguerite, pretending to be the wife of the jailed “Sydney Bartleby,” would seek visitation. Two of the League would relieve the real guards on duty, and when they were gone, Percy and his men would take Blaine from the place. If asked, they were moving the captive under orders from the Committee of Public Safety.

 

Kurt was confident in the arrangement. Soon, he would have Blaine, have helped rescue the man he adored, and they would be on their way to England, this troubles left behind in dingy streets and damp molded prison straw.

 

A kink in the well oiled wheel of action came when Marguerite rounded the corner to the jail, and promptly coiled back into the shadows of the building they were passing. She placed a warning hand on her husband’s chest, and the men froze with her hiss of, “ _ Chauvelin _ .”

 

“Chauvelin?” The name sounded familiar, tickling at the edges of Kurt’s memory.

 

“An influential member of the Committee of Public Safety,” Marguerite answered, “The Scarlet Pimpernel’s greatest adversary. His obsession has lead to him to discover Percy's identity, but he has been unsuccessful in capturing him.”

 

“He will remain unsuccessful.” Percy smiled under the faux beard, “My disguises have never failed. Unfortunately, Marguerite’s beauty would be recognized immediately. The clothes mean nothing if he sees her face.”

 

Kurt looked to her, clad in grays and whites with her curled locks tumbling about her shoulders. She was still a beauty, yes, but not the fashion icon of Europe. No one would suspect her, unless, “He knows you, too?”

 

“Has known me for a very long time.” There was a story in her blue eyes, maybe many, but then was not the time to share. “We cannot go through with our plan if he is there.”

 

Kurt fought the worry needling at his heart, poking his head around the corner of the cottage. Chauvelin was still outside the doorway of the prison, talking with the one of the two guards. His figure was slight in comparison to theirs, his robes billowing and black against their brighter uniforms. A tricolor scarf tied haphazardly about his waist identified him as part of the chaotic Republic, and his manner of dress earned a scoff from his observer.

 

“I shan’t lose Blaine to a man who cannot tie his cravat properly.”

 

Beside him, Percy let out his inane laugh— an action that made Chauvelin stop and turn, and Kurt duck into hiding. Percy clapped him on the shoulder, approving and agreeing with the criticism, but Kurt brushed him off, heart racing in his chest at the fear of being caught. “I think he knows we are here.”

 

Percy gave a hum of question, risked his own eyes around the corner, and when he turned to them, his grin was eerily wider. “Splendid.” He set his attention on Sir Ffoulkes, “Andrew, tell Chauvelin you and a few guards noticed a suspicious gathering nearby. It will set him off, and we should have enough time to get Blaine before he returns. Hastings, you go with him. We retreat to the shore at sunset, God willing our ventures are successful.”

 

Sir Ffoulkes and Hastings nodded their heads, adjusted the swords on their belts, and sprinted around the corner, convincing in their loud voices of urgency, “Citizen Chauvelin!”

 

Kurt tried to keep up with the new developments, impressed by how quickly they could change course and act. His pulse raced, not calming till he heard the fake report, the official’s curses, and the retreating of heavy boots.

 

A minute, a peek of reassurance, and they approached the jail. Percy and a man he did not catch the name of flanked Marguerite’s sides, and Kurt trailed her from behind. The two guards inclined their heads in greeting, but did not offer pleasantries. “State your business.”

 

Percy took the lead, “This is the wife of the man Bartleby. She has been granted permission to see him by the state, as she knows he is guilty of treason and wishes their small wealth signed to her.” His posture, his speech, it was all perfectly persuasive. To think Kurt had criticized the man’s acting that night months ago!

 

The shorter of the two guards snorted, “A woman to inherit his fortune? Is there no son?”

 

Marguerite turned her sharp eyes on him, “You would be a traitor to the Republic to deny me equality, citizen. Have you not read Mary Wollstonecraft’s  _ A Vindication of the Rights of Woman _ ?”

 

He seemed to shrink under her intense gaze. “I have heard of it.”

 

“Then you should know I am entitled to every right you take for granted.” She fished into the pockets of her shabby dress, producing a coin that earned trust when her words failed. “I ask for his signature, not his life. You have nothing to concern yourself with.” She held out the money to him, and he did not blink in accepting it. “Go and find an early dinner and some drink. My business will be done before you return.”

 

The guards looked to Percy, who gave a shrug of his shoulders. “We will keep watch to make sure nothing happens. We have been assigned to her. We cannot leave.”

 

They stepped away from their posts, the taller man handing over his keys to Percy. Glad to be relieved of duty, they shared a grin, and headed in the direction of a pub down the road. When they were out of sight, Marguerite and Percy let themselves in. “Keep watch. Give warning if you spy any sign of Chauvelin.”

 

Kurt and the other pseudo-guard nodded. An imaginary hour glass had been tipped, and they watched the thin crowds carefully. Those that passed them walked swiftly, refusing eye contact, untrusting and unsafe. It was true there had been class division in France before— the richest and the poorest; yet, even if a poor man was abused by aristocrats, there had never been cruelty like this. He might have been beaten, abused, but he was not doomed by his equals, not condemned by false accusations and sentenced to death. How had an uprising inspired by Liberty come to such a bloody consummation?

 

The consciousness of the people was defeated— there were few without downcast eyes, filthy hands, and grave souls. Revolutionary France was a level of Hell that Dante had failed to describe. Kurt was unnerved, and in the masses hopeless meandering, he nearly lost his final grasp on courage.

 

The door behind them opened. Marguerite exited first, followed by Percy, and beside him Blaine. There were faint purple circles beneath his eyes, his hair matted and skin dry with dirt. He was dressed in old clothing, the shirt bitten by moths, and his hands were bound by rope. He was the image of a prisoner, except for his bright eyes, and when those honey orbs met Kurt’s, he smiled brightly.

 

“You are the worst actor of them all,” was all Kurt could say in response, fighting the smile that threatened his guardsman grimace.

 

For a few glorious moments, they had their easy victory.

 

They were silent in the march back. What they wished to say they could not say without being overheard, and guards did not normally chat with prisoners. However, they made it only as far as three streets when they encountered trouble. Chauvelin, by unfortunate coincidence, was standing in their way. He was surrounded by guards, no doubt searching for the man who had accidentally found him, and they might have ducked away unnoticed if Chauvelin had not caught sight of Marguerite.

 

There was a sudden flurry of movement and clouds of dirt. Kurt heard the voice of the official calling to his men. “The Scarlet Pimpernel is here! Damn! Do not let him escape!”

 

There was a closer voice that gave him his directions. “Untie Blaine and head for the shore. We will meet you shortly.”

 

Kurt trusted whoever spoke to him, and was handed the ropes that secured Blaine’s wrists. With some struggle condensed in time, he freed him, laced their fingers, and dragged him from the dusty and brawling confusion.

 

“Wait, Kurt, we have to—”

 

“We have to obey instructions.”

 

They pushed through the squad of the Gendarmerie Nationale, the men clambering over each other to take action, failing to pay attention to commands. Had they listened to their leader, they would have heard, “Grab those men!” and heard what clamped icily around Kurt’s heart, “I’ve got his wife. He cannot leave. If he is hiding, drag him out, shout the moment that you find him!”

 

There was a sword at his hip. If Kurt turned around, he could— no, he had to do as Percy asked. He felt sick, running with Blaine to the water, hating every long stride that took him farther from the actress.

 

It was torture when they finally reached the shore. They hid tucked away with a pair of the  _ Day Dreams _ ’s dinghies, chests heaving, bodies sore. Kurt, though he tried not to, imagined the terrible things that could be happening in the town. Had Chauvelin hurt Marguerite? Had he caught Percy? What of the other men?

 

No sooner did he think of the League then three men appeared, the two that had first tricked Chauvelin, and the one that had been with Percy and Marguerite. They did not seem half as alarmed as Kurt, and when he looked to Blaine, he found him smiling quite happily. He hit him on the arm, “What’s that grin? We could have died and our friends are—”

 

“Right here.” The woman’s words had never sounded sweeter.

 

Kurt turned and found Marguerite walking gracefully towards them over the rocky beach. “I thought he had you.”

 

“He thought so too,” she said.

 

Her husband was not far behind her, laughing. “My dear Chauvelin grabbed a woman nearby, but it was not my wife.” The band was together, and without need of words, began pushing the small boats into the water. Percy explained what had happened. “Needless to say, he let the woman go when he realized his mistake. At that point, I imagine we could have escaped quite easily. Chauvelin would have thought himself delusional, but that hardly seemed fair, and what sport would there be in eluding a mad man?”

 

“What did you do?” Blaine asked, reminding Kurt of a child thirsty for adventurous tales.

 

“I revealed myself to him, and ran. It gave Froggie and Marguerite a chance to leave the fray and I had myself a great rooftop duel.” He patted the weapon at his side fondly.

 

“What happened to Chauvelin?” This time it was Kurt who asked, more out of future confrontational concern than curiosity.

 

“Haven’t the foggiest. Didn’t see him after he lost his footing and fell into a hay cart on the street. The mule was quite startled by the crash and bolted, and I fancy Chauvelin is traveling with the poor creature still.”

 

There was a round of laughter, and once they had set themselves on the water, Kurt sighed with relief. His hand found Blaine’s on the sliver of seat between them. “What am I going to do with you?”

 

Percy provided his thoughts, “Teach him to follow my directions. Thank you for doing what I asked, Lord Hummel.”

 

Marguerite, who sat in front of them next to her husband, turned and lifted her fine eyebrows. She seemed to say, “Well? You know what I think,” and with a knowing smile fixed her eyes on her beau.

  
  


It was not until they were on the  _ Day Dream _ that Blaine guided Kurt to a private place to talk on the large deck, out of sight and earshot, and in perfect view of the painted sunset. In the height of the sky, stars were beginning to twinkle. The men were changed, donning their typical fashion, clean, fed, and comfortable.

 

“It was Percy that wanted you to join the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.” Blaine told him, words carrying over the channel breezes. “I admit, I was conflicted. While it thrilled me to have you closer, to be in on my greatest secret, I was worried too for your safety.” Their hands found each other again on the railing of the hull. “You see, I have known for some time that, if anything were to happen to you, I would not be able to live, and if I lived, I would be but a shell.”

 

“Blaine—”

 

“Please, let me finish.” He moved closer, determined his confession be heard clearly. “I was terrified that you meant so much to me. Kurt, you are everything,  _ everything _ I have been searching for. Until now, I was worried our intentions were mismatched, that you did not care for me the way I cared for you, but…” He spared a glance at the distant retreating shore, “You came for me.” Their eyes locked. “And I must tell you, even at the risk of our friendship, that I am in love with you.”

 

In the following moment, Kurt thought and felt many things. He was happy, happier than he had ever been. The man he loved returned his affections; he was kind, selfless, and  _ alive _ . Kurt had helped save him. They had had their venture, both their bodies and their hearts, and they had come out victorious. Yes, their relationship might have complications in the future, and there were things they had to discuss and decide, but for now, it did not matter. Kurt Hummel had all he ever wished for from life. Gratitude swelled within him, coupled with joy, and escaped him in the smallest glitter of tears.

 

He moved forward and kissed Blaine’s grinning mouth.

  
  
  


There was no doubt about it in Kurt’s mind from then on— Lady Marguerite Blakeney was the cleverest woman in Europe.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has 3 parts, already completed, to be posted over the next couple of days. If you're bored in the meantime, The Scarlet Pimpernel books are public domain and can be found [here](http://www.blakeneymanor.com/series.html) if you're inclined to read them. The first book is a classic and one of my absolute favorites!


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